


Magnificent Promises Are Always to be Suspected

by withdiamonds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-19
Updated: 2009-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think the title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnificent Promises Are Always to be Suspected

College promised normality; at least that’s what Dean had finally figured out that Sam was thinking.

Sam thought if he went to college and got a degree and a _career_ , for fuck’s sake, he could just be a normal guy, hanging out with his friends, shooting the shit, picking up chicks, no worries about money or hunting or anything that waited for him in the dark.

But that was bullshit. And, okay, Dean had to admit, shooting the shit and picking up chicks wasn’t really Sam’s scene. That was more like what Dean would do if he ever went to college. Which he planned to do when hell froze over.

But finding a nice girl to settle down with, a nice job to settle into, nice friends to geek out with, that was Sammy all over.

And it would also solve that whole pesky sleeping with his brother thing, because there wasn’t a goddamn thing normal about that and Sam knew it.

Every time they stayed in one place more than a month or two when they were growing up, Sam would start to get that look. That _settled_ look, the one that made Dean uneasy. It meant Sam was starting to feel like he belonged, starting to let his guard down. That’s when some geeky kid would start hanging around, some kid just like Sam, with a love of books, or math, or soccer. Sometimes the kid would even be a girl, and Dean was never sure if that made it better or worse.

And the settled look would fight for dominance with the _worried_ look, the one that pinched Sam’s lips and put a wrinkle in his forehead, right between his eyes. Dean could practically read his thoughts, knew that Sam was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Dad to take them away, drag Sam off from whatever life he was starting to settle into.

And Sam knew it was going to happen, knew it every time, and Dean could see him struggle against it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to avoid settling in.

And when the worried look inevitably proved itself justified, then the look would come that made Dean want to shake his brother until his teeth rattled in his head.

The _angry_ look. And, oh, the anger wasn’t all directed at Dad. No, Dean could tell Sam was always just as angry with himself. Angry that he’d let it happen again, angry that he’d let himself settle in, even though he fucking knew better. He knew better every damn time, but it didn’t stop him from letting some bossy girl with braces or some skinny kid with weird clothes get under his skin, become _important_.

The worse part, though, was when the angry look was followed by the _betrayed_ look. That one was directed at Dean and Dean alone. Like it was Dean’s job to remind Sam not to settle in, or to convince Dad to stay just this once. Like it was Dean’s job to make sure Sammy didn’t get hurt.

Dean failed at his job every time. And if he sometimes wondered why he wasn’t enough to make Sam happy, why Sam needed _more_ , he never asked.

So one day Sam announced that he was leaving. He was going to college, going to be normal, to settle down somewhere. The resulting fight with Dad culminated in anger and threats and ultimatums on both sides, and Dean was left helpless in the middle.

And when it was over and the dust had settled, the betrayed look on Sam’s face was all that was left. And Dean took it, accepted it as his due. Only this time, the look came from John, too, and so Dean walked away, let the screen door slam behind him as he moved down the dusty steps of the front porch.

Sam’s eyes were wide and John’s were narrowed as Dean climbed into his car without a word and drove away. Let them fight it out, let them enrage and hurt each other all they wanted. Let them do it without Dean, without their middleman, and see how they liked it. Let them see what they made of each other with no one there to be their buffer.

Dean didn’t give a shit. He drove, let forward momentum take him down the road to somewhere else, someplace where he wasn’t responsible for giving the only people he cared about in the world what they wanted, when the things they wanted were polar opposites and impossible to give.

He stayed away for three days. He ignored the ringing of his phone and the pull of his conscience. He ignored how tight his skin felt in the absence of Sam’s touch.

When Dean came back, pulling the Impala into the gravel driveway of the rental home they’d managed to stay in for four whole months, Sam was already gone. John wouldn’t talk about it for a day and a half, just said Sam had left.

Dean went out into the field behind the old house, set up a line of beer bottles and cans along the fence and fired round after round into them, until there was nothing left but scraps of tin and shards of brown glass everywhere.

“Waste of ammo,” was all John said when Dean came into the kitchen as the sun was setting behind the house, but his hand brushed Dean’s shoulder in cold comfort.

Dean didn’t trust himself to speak, so he pressed his lips together and kept his silence.

The next day when John said there was a hunt two states over and they might as well pack everything up and go, he didn’t add that there was no reason for them to come back and they might just as well stay on the road awhile. He didn’t have to.

He told Dean that Sam had taken a bus on out to California, had taken all his things with him, and had left a note for Dean.

It wasn’t until after they killed the rawhead in Missouri that Dean read the note. He turned the envelope over and over in his hand, looking at the shapes of the letters of his name, trying to discern something from the way Sam had formed them.

It didn’t tell him anything new.

 _Dean, I’m sorry. I tried to wait for you to come back, but I couldn’t. He’s just so fucking bull-headed and impossible. I know you think- Shit. I’m not leaving you, Dean. You know that. I’ll call you soon._

 _Sam_

A month later, Dean was still checking his phone for messages a couple of times a day. It was almost an unconscious habit - when he stopped for gas, when he stopped for lunch, when he stopped for the night, he checked his voicemail.

Two months later, he was only allowing himself to check on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. It wasn’t like his phone was broken, it still chimed when he had a voicemail or a text message. There was no reason to check it all the time; it worked just fine.

Three months later, he’d got himself down to once a week, and never when Dad was around. They didn’t talk about Sam much, but when they did, Dean could see Dad’s anger diminishing, dwindling down to where he could say Sam’s name with rueful affection instead of rage and frustration.

Dean smiled tightly when he did and nodded and slipped his fingers into his pocket, smoothing them over his phone.

Four months and he still startled with sudden and stupid hope when his phone rang. He’d managed to get hold of Sam’s number and he stared at it once in a while, his thumb hovering over _send_ , but he never pushed it.

When Sam had been gone a year, Dean sometimes found himself running his fingers over his phone when he was bored, or reaching for it after a successful hunt, when the adrenaline was still pouring through him, making him reckless. He would catch himself and wonder why he was doing it, and then he would remember.

He was waiting for a phone call.


End file.
